unless you count heartburn pills and aspirin.”
“Mixed together? Is that something the kids are doing now?”
“No—I mean, I don’t know. I meant separately . I don’t take anything stronger than aspirin.”
Frank jotted a note on his pad, using a pen marked with the logo of a cholesterol drug. The pen made Declan smile. Every time he dealt with the residents of Pineapple Port, they produced pens featuring drug advertisements, stolen from their doctors. He guessed no one in the community had purchased a pen in thirty years.
“It’s funny,” he said. “That pen you’re us—”
“Tell me more about your dad,” said Frank, cutting him short again.
“Uh…there isn’t much to tell.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Declan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Okay…well, he left when I was two or three. My mother raised me alone for a few years in New York, and then moved down here to be next to my grandmother.”
“Mm hm,” said Frank, scribbling a few more notes. The pad of paper he used had It’s five o’clock somewhere! stamped on it in hot pink. Declan scanned the house, spotting a frilly pillow and decorative plates on the wall.
“You and your wife live here long?” he asked.
Frank blessed him with his steely glare.
“Who said anything about my wife?”
“I was just making small talk.”
“Don’t. I hate that shit.”
“Duly noted,” said Declan, crossing his legs.
Frank looked at his crossed legs for a little too long, and he uncrossed them. This seemed to satisfy the sheriff and he returned to his notepad.
“Anything else I should know about your parents?”
“Well…when I was eleven, my mother left in the middle of the night and never came back. We never knew what happened to her. My grandmother reported her missing, but nothing ever came of it.”
“Hm. I can see how that could mess you up.”
“I guess. My grandmother was a big help, her and my uncle, Seamus. He lived here at the time, but left to become an officer in Miami. He left his half of the Charity pawnshop to me for when I was old enough to take over.”
“So he’s police?”
“Was.”
“Was?”
“He just retired. He’s moving back here this week, actually.”
“Good for him.”
“He was decorated,” added Declan, feeling as though he had finally found some common ground with the sheriff.
“Oh, he must be so proud of you,” mumbled Frank.
Declan scowled.
“Sheriff, have I done something to offend you?”
“Let’s just say all your childhood hardships don’t forgive your behavior now. I’m so sick of this new generation, always blaming their problems on their mommies and daddies.”
“I haven’t blamed anything on anyone!”
“My mommy didn’t buy me the right brand of organic waffles,” said Frank in a whiney voice, ignoring Declan’s protestations. “That’s why I burned down the school.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Declan, rising to his feet. “I didn’t burn down a school!”
“I’m talking about your sick little hobby, you wackjob!”
The sheriff stood and pointed at Declan’s chest with his crooked index finger. He stood a good six inches shorter, but leaned forward like an aggressive bulldog. His posture gave Declan pause, and he had to fight his rising anger. He hated the idea of flashing a temper and confirming the sheriff’s impressive list of Irish stereotypes.
“What hobby?” he demanded to know.
“What hobby? Building ships in a bottle. You know what hobby, you pervert!”
Frank stuck his stubby finger in Declan’s face to punctuate the word pervert . It was all he could do not to slap it away and he clenched his fists at his sides to keep his hands still. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to hit someone, let alone an elderly man recently spotted in a mermaid t-shirt.
Heh.
The image of the pink shell bikini top across Frank’s chest brought a smirk to Declan’s lips and he felt his
“Mixed together? Is that something the kids are doing now?”
“No—I mean, I don’t know. I meant separately . I don’t take anything stronger than aspirin.”
Frank jotted a note on his pad, using a pen marked with the logo of a cholesterol drug. The pen made Declan smile. Every time he dealt with the residents of Pineapple Port, they produced pens featuring drug advertisements, stolen from their doctors. He guessed no one in the community had purchased a pen in thirty years.
“It’s funny,” he said. “That pen you’re us—”
“Tell me more about your dad,” said Frank, cutting him short again.
“Uh…there isn’t much to tell.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Declan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Okay…well, he left when I was two or three. My mother raised me alone for a few years in New York, and then moved down here to be next to my grandmother.”
“Mm hm,” said Frank, scribbling a few more notes. The pad of paper he used had It’s five o’clock somewhere! stamped on it in hot pink. Declan scanned the house, spotting a frilly pillow and decorative plates on the wall.
“You and your wife live here long?” he asked.
Frank blessed him with his steely glare.
“Who said anything about my wife?”
“I was just making small talk.”
“Don’t. I hate that shit.”
“Duly noted,” said Declan, crossing his legs.
Frank looked at his crossed legs for a little too long, and he uncrossed them. This seemed to satisfy the sheriff and he returned to his notepad.
“Anything else I should know about your parents?”
“Well…when I was eleven, my mother left in the middle of the night and never came back. We never knew what happened to her. My grandmother reported her missing, but nothing ever came of it.”
“Hm. I can see how that could mess you up.”
“I guess. My grandmother was a big help, her and my uncle, Seamus. He lived here at the time, but left to become an officer in Miami. He left his half of the Charity pawnshop to me for when I was old enough to take over.”
“So he’s police?”
“Was.”
“Was?”
“He just retired. He’s moving back here this week, actually.”
“Good for him.”
“He was decorated,” added Declan, feeling as though he had finally found some common ground with the sheriff.
“Oh, he must be so proud of you,” mumbled Frank.
Declan scowled.
“Sheriff, have I done something to offend you?”
“Let’s just say all your childhood hardships don’t forgive your behavior now. I’m so sick of this new generation, always blaming their problems on their mommies and daddies.”
“I haven’t blamed anything on anyone!”
“My mommy didn’t buy me the right brand of organic waffles,” said Frank in a whiney voice, ignoring Declan’s protestations. “That’s why I burned down the school.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Declan, rising to his feet. “I didn’t burn down a school!”
“I’m talking about your sick little hobby, you wackjob!”
The sheriff stood and pointed at Declan’s chest with his crooked index finger. He stood a good six inches shorter, but leaned forward like an aggressive bulldog. His posture gave Declan pause, and he had to fight his rising anger. He hated the idea of flashing a temper and confirming the sheriff’s impressive list of Irish stereotypes.
“What hobby?” he demanded to know.
“What hobby? Building ships in a bottle. You know what hobby, you pervert!”
Frank stuck his stubby finger in Declan’s face to punctuate the word pervert . It was all he could do not to slap it away and he clenched his fists at his sides to keep his hands still. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to hit someone, let alone an elderly man recently spotted in a mermaid t-shirt.
Heh.
The image of the pink shell bikini top across Frank’s chest brought a smirk to Declan’s lips and he felt his
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